


Nocturne (English Version)

by nansenmunin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7222048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nansenmunin/pseuds/nansenmunin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All romantic poems made sense to Prouvaire when first time Combeferre invite him for a walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne (English Version)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Nocturne](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562138) by [nansenmunin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nansenmunin/pseuds/nansenmunin). 



> Sorry for the poor translation but I tried, I really did.
> 
> Combeferre cite a sentence from pensée by Pascal

 "After that, right, it was published on _mercure de France_." Prouvaire talks with cheerful tone, summing up his little speech.

"Are you talking about chemistry? Mercury, is it?" Combeferre looks up and asked, just walking into the first floor of musain café. Prouvaire blushes:

"I am talking about André Chénier, after his death, his works have been published on the literary journal _Mercure de France_."

People who listen to Prouvaire’s speech laughed, Combeferre expresses a sorry smile, going upstairs and sit among them:

"But talking about _mercure de France_ , I remember the night before, at the old Sorbonne university lecture hall, a physician from St. Petersburg presented a case on toxicity of mercury vapor. Hatters who long steeped in mercury vapor while working can present muscle weakness and emotional disorders. In our country, yes, right in France, since 1600s, Hatters have been prepared rabbit and otter using mercury, such harmful work environment will...... "

Combeferre begins a small talk on working environment of craftsman and everyone gathers around. Feuilly writes notes, even Courfeyrac, the young man from aristocratic family and without many real life experiences, also listens carefully.

Prouvaire himself does not, he knows he had to listen to this knowledge, but he concerns more about how Combeferre looks when he is speaking than Huguenot’s tanning method in 17th century. He gazes intently into his soft brown eyes. Then Combeferre notices, and slightly nods to the poet. Suddenly his face burns even worse. Prouvaire turns away, trying to focus on Combeferre’s small speech. Joly pokes his shoulder:

"Jehan, you blush violently, it must because of the burning furnace, somehow they are more than warm today, you should go outside and cool down for a while or it could be harmful to your brain."

He suddenly realizes his mind is distracted, walked out the door of Musain, night temperatures plunged, Prouvaire notices that snow is slowly falling from the dark sky with the orange street light. In the distance a man walks pass the streets then finally his footstep fades.

 _Mais o_ _ù_ _sont les neiges d’antan_? Aimlessly Prouvaire wonders on the road of Saint-Michel, mumbling Villon’s poem, his thoughts also begin to wonder uncontrolled. When did it all start? He asked himself, trying to recall a certain scene: last winter at Musain, when he was  trying to compose a political allegory poem, the medical school student opened door, carrying two glasses of mulled wine and one of them was for him; also at the time when they talk about Virgil, De Rerum Natura and Aeschylus, he himself talking excitedly, and Combeferre - his only audience write all the original sentence he cites down in a sloppy but beautiful font, his doctor font; or at those subtle moments, a delicate moment, when sunshine pouring down at month of Prairial, through the planes, dazzling blue iris and daisies in Jardin du Luxembourg, he saw Combeferre come along the park trail. In the gentle breeze his brown hair was soft, which made him solemn, white collar gleaming in the sun, thorn Prouvaire eye sore. At the moment Prouvaire knew that gods finally came to cast their inescapable gaze on him.

"Je ne sais quoi (I don’t know why)." Prouvaire said to myself, cannot suppress his smile, but at the same time a sense of fear emerges. First time in his life Prouvaire experiences such a strong but paradoxical emotion, which completely overwhelms him.

Unconsciously, snow turns his hair into grey.

Suddenly he seemed to feel someone standing behind him, Prouvaire turns around, finds Combeferre behind himself, holding his brown coat:

"Corneille said: the cause of love is a _je ne sais quoi_ , and the effects of it are dreadful. This _je ne sais quoi_ , so small and object that we cannot recognize it, agitates a whole country, princes, armies and the entire world.  

Combeferre notices Prouvaire’s thoughts, which makes Prouvaire panicked and ashamed. He takes his coat in a hush and put it on, while Combeferre added:

" _Pens_ _é_ _e_ , Pascal, Pascal is my Chénier."

Prouvaire takes courage to look up at his doctor friend, and in return Combeferre looks at him, lovingly:

"I'm sorry to disturb your speech today."

"No, it's, it’s fine, I was go, going to end it anyway." Prouvaire stutters, too nervous to finish a simple sentence.

But Combeferre just waits, patiently, and does not make any comment on it. Then he looks to the vast snowy night above the roof of Musain café. Prouvaire also looks up, along Combeferre’s gaze, trying to calm down a little bit. Snowflakes fly toward his fevered cheek. For a moment they stand quietly.

"My friend, what are you thinking?" Combeferre asked abruptly.

"I am thinking about the Ursa Minor behind cloud. Doomed by love, Callisto could never rest at the dome of night; I am think about irresistible love that described in Greek myth. Love itself is eternal tragedy.”

Combeferre laughed, the resonance of his chest let this kind of laughter becomes deep and powerful. Prouvaire is attached by his motion, my God, he thinks, Combeferre is so adorable when he laughs.

"My friends, my poet, fate and love, they are like celestial and always have its own existence. Now that today it is even impossible to see the North Star, maybe it is time for us to temporarily withdraw the sight for sky itself and focus on the moment on earth." said Combeferre to Prouvaire. The philosopher slightly bowed, held out his hand," so, my dear friend, are you willing to accompany me for a walk in the snow tonight? '

Prouvaire holds Combeferre’s hand, feeling satisfied and satiety when both sadness and joy flush into his heart. And at this moment, all the romantic poems to him, have its meaning.

 


End file.
